


Don't Leave Me

by Nomanono, Sintina



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: All he wanted was a hug, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I mean, M/M, Nobody he cared about, Nobody hugged him, Tiny tiger sobbed on the ice, VictUuri, cough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 08:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/pseuds/Nomanono, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintina/pseuds/Sintina
Summary: Katsudon? Retiring?No.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A very first collaboration to figure out how well we word together, with more to come! Hopefully you'll find the best of both our worlds here.

Yuri’s knees hit the ice, burning lungs opening for sobs instead of breaths. He covered his face in his hands, tears streaming between his knuckles. This wasn’t enough. 

He’d fallen. He’d touched the ice. And there was no way - his heart cracked his ribs on the realization - _no way_ Yuuri would ever stay now.

—

“Another score higher than the pig’s,” Yuri had smirked the previous day, post-record arrogance snarking his tone. He was pleased to see his rival visibly wince in the seat below. Boasting helped mask Yuri's slowly receding panic.

The rumors of Yuuri’s retirement had been whipping through the rink, repeated in front of the cameras, never with any sort of confirmation.

The first time Yuri heard he stopped in his tracks, grappling the bystander by the collar and near-screaming “What did you say!?” Yakov intervened, but Yuri remained shaken. 

Katsudon? Retiring?

No. 

He didn’t _dare_. 

Yuuri wanted gold, didn’t he? If Yuri could keep that away from him, perhaps - just perhaps - Yuuri would stay where he belonged: on the ice, skating against Yuri.

After his world record Yuri had been so confident in his success. Yuuri in fourth? It was almost statistically impossible to place first from that far behind.

—

Then, today, Yuri had watched their faces, Victor and Yuuri’s, on the Jumbotron when Yuuri’s record was announced.

They looked so _happy_ , lost in their own little world, like neither of them realized this was the end of Yuri’s.

Suddenly, Yuuri winning gold wasn’t quite so impossible.

—

Finally, Victor’s announcement: right before Yuri took the ice.

Yuri had grabbed Victor’s sleeve, needier than he’d ever sounded before, “Does that mean Katsudon’s retiring?!” There was no way Victor could coach and skate at the same time. If Victor was skating… 

Victor hesitated, a flicker in his eyes (What was that!? Fear? Doubt? Sadness?), then said: “That’s for Yuuri to decide. He promised he would, after the Final’s over.” 

All Yuri heard was he still had a chance, an opportunity to remove that insecurity from Victor’s eyes. That unexpected vulnerability spooked Yuri more than anything.

Dammit, Nikiforov was never afraid of anything in his life! And he was confessing this shit to Yuri _right before_ he went on the ice? 

Feeding off the natural adrenaline before a performance, Yuri was a volcano about to explode, and Victor just held him with some sort of misplaced desperation. This hug wasn't about comfort. There was no cooling water to harden the lava coursing through Yuri’s veins. If anything, the pressure added volatility to the coming explosion. 

Yuri could count on one hand the number of times Victor hugged him, really crushed their chests together like this. He had to do something. What could Yuri do?

“I’ll beat him,” Yuri swore beneath his breath.

—

That hug couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes ago, and yet it felt like another lifetime.

Yuri sat in the kiss and cry, staring down at the floor, eyes hollow. Yakov had a hand on his shoulder, and Lilia sat primly beside him, holding one of the stuffed cats plucked from the ice. Yuri’s eyes were still red, but the tears had stopped. He stared at the costume sucked against his sweat-damp skin, black and vibrant pinks and reds, not so different from Yuuri’s Eros. 

Eros and Agape. That’s how this all started. How jealous he'd been of Yuuri back then! He hated him now, too, for taking Victor away, and yet the thought of trading Yuuri for Victor's return- why the hell couldn't he have them both again like last season? Except last season he was a Junior, and not really their competitor. He just wanted… 

Yuri choked and closed his eyes, trying to scrub away the images on his eyelids. 

All he could see before him was a future without everything he’d fought for.

—

.12 points, that’s how the announcers said it, but it was really one tenth of one point.

One tenth of a point separating Plisetsky and Katsuki on the podium

Yuri no longer felt like he was dying, at least not physically, but he was still in a shock of disbelief as he stood for the medal presentation. He was in the center, and there, to his right, was Yuuri. Beneath him. Under him. One tenth of a point, and Yuri had won.

It should have felt different. It should have felt like victory. The cameras flashed, the crowds cheered, the announcers marveled at a record breaking, gold medal debut for a 15 year old Russian _wunderkind_.

“Monster” felt far more appropriate. They’d said that enough before tonight. Had they only stopped because he’d won? Funny, tonight was the first time he felt he deserved the title. Yuri didn’t even feel human anymore, and this feeling of detachment from all the world was only exacerbated by the couple he relied on for affirmation.

Everyone looked at him like he should be elated - except the two people he cared most about.

—

He stood shoulder to shoulder next to Yuuri at the press circle on the ice post-ceremony. They hadn’t said a word to each other.

“Get a little closer, let’s see your medals!” the photographer called. Yuri lifted his gold, feeling JJ squish into his side, trying to take up as much of the photo as possible. Yuri glared, but then Yuuri’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing. A glance in Yuuri’s direction revealed nothing. Yuuri wasn’t even looking at him, just gazing into the camera with a steady sort of calm.

Like he already knew what his future held.

 _So, fucking tell me already, Katsudon!_ Yuri scowled into the stands, hating the dry tears still stinging his eyes and the bile that burned his throat.

—

He watched Victor and Yuuri leave the rink, hand in hand, and wondered if that was the last time they’d all be on the ice together.

The thought halted his footfalls. He had the sudden urge to run up ahead, grab them before they could leave. If this was really the last time, he wanted to make them hold onto the moment, do a sappy group hug, or something! 

Dammit! 

It was such a childish thought that he immediately berated himself for picturing it, wanting it.

Yakov had taken many paces before realizing Yuri was no longer at his side. He turned, brow lowering into a frustrated squint. He saw Yuri’s chest rise and fall as if the boy was hyperventilating. This was not particularly unusual for his melodramatic skaters. So he barked:

“Yes, it is momentous. But you have all night to bask. The conference starts in an hour. Hurry up before you get run over by a Zamboni!”

Yuri just blinked at him, then oddly turned his head, looking for an oncoming ice cleaner that, of course, wasn’t there. Yakov had to ask:

“What’s wrong with you?”

Which snapped Yuri out of it.

“Nothing! _Blyad_! Can’t I have a moment to freaking think, Old Man?!” He stormed past.

Yakov fumed, but stayed quiet. The gold medal around Yuri’s neck earned him a chance to mouth off like that. But only one.

—

The short break until the press conference was unbearable. Yuri didn’t say anything to his teammates, no matter how many different approaches they tried to take with him. He didn’t even call his Grandpa, who would certainly hear whatever unvoiced emotions were strangling Yuri. Lilia came with him to his room, waiting outside while he changed so she could help him with his hair and tie.

Yuri left the medal on the dresser and stood in the shower until Lilia yelled for him.

“Be quick, Yuri! Tardiness is never attractive!”

He was teetering between outrage and numbness, and eventually the latter won out and he walked zombie-like from the bathroom.

“You should have spoken more after the ceremony,” Lilia tutted as she combed through his hair. “Now the papers will just be talking about JJ’s failure and Victor’s return.”

 _What about Yuuri?_ , Yuri wanted to scream, but he was petrified, because what if the answer was: “What about him?” Or worse, he heard her voice say in that confident snark she had: “The press is done with him; he's done with his career.” 

No no no. Yuri couldn't break in front of Lilia. Least of all her. He tried to man up. His emotions felt like physical things he could swallow or chew or somehow shatter inside himself. Monsters didn’t feel like this. 

—

 _Well?! Is your pig staying on the ice?_ Yuri typed into his phone, text appearing underneath Victor’s glowing smile. His thumb hovered over the send button.

He deleted it.

Paced.

 _I assume your pig gave up and retired?_ he tried again, but still couldn’t bring himself to send the text.

“Most people get nervous _before_ the Grand Prix,” Yakov muttered. “Sit down, Yuri.”

_Are you going to coach me already or do you still have to watch over that dumb pig?_

Delete.

Yuri sat next to Yakov, and with a reluctant grumble Yakov laid his hand on Yuri’s back. Yuri was never the sort to take comfort in physicality, but Yakov was rapidly running out of options.

“What have you heard about Victor?” Yuri asked. Yakov looked confused, then his eyes went wide.

“Ah. You’re worried he’s going to come back and beat you,” Yakov realized, believing he found the root of Yuri’s anxiety.

“No, I —”

“Don’t worry. He won’t be able to focus, thanks to Yuuri,” Yakov said.

Yuri felt his heart skip. What did that mean? He wouldn’t be able to focus without Yuuri on the ice? Or retired Yuuri would be one of those needy partners constantly begruding their athlete’s time with the ice?

But then they were being called in for the conference.

—

Yuri shoved his shoulder into Yuuri’s, making the Japanese skater stumble as they approached the stage.

“You aren’t even going to tell me?” Yuri had to work not to shout it, glaring and red cheeked and furious, the first plumes of ash foreshadowing imminent explosion.

Yuuri just blinked at him. “Tell you what?” And then Victor was ushering Yuuri up the three small steps, over to the seat with the KATSUKI placard in front of it.

Yuri watched them move, anger flowing through his veins like magma. He wanted to scream at them, but the flash of the cameras kept his jaw clicked shut.

 _How dare they_.

Victor held Yuuri for a few seconds, whispering something into his ear that made both of them laugh. They looked so goddamn happy. Did Yuri not matter at all to them? After everything they went through? After Hasetsu? After Rostelecom?

Yuri almost killed himself on the ice for them, and…

… and they didn’t even _care_.

Yuri fell into his seat.

—

“I’ll be joining Victor in St. Petersburg and continuing to skate with Victor as my coach,” Yuuri said.

Yuri wanted to be relieved. It should have felt like crisp cool water replacing the fire inside Yuri, loosening the rocky shell around his chest, flooding the volcano into calm. Like when Victor made them stand under that waterfall, or maybe like slipping into the hot springs after a torturous day. It should have felt like any of those things, but instead the knowledge ached like a sprained ankle, searing into pain if he flinched. 

For all that Yuri had done, all that he had worked for, all that he had pushed and strived and sacrificed… all of that went unseen, unacknowledged, by the two people who were his entire inspiration, his entire reason for being in this fucking chair at this fucking moment. His mind thought of his coaches. No, screw Yakov and Lilia! They were just tools used to perfect an engine, they were never the Olympic torch itself, never the _reason_ for competing, never the ones he needed validation from. 

They weren’t done talking yet. Reporters were still asking them questions. 

He waited for Yuuri or Victor to thank him, or to mention him, even in jest, a playful jab about beating him next year would mean they were a team, an inseparable trio of competitors, locked in conquest with one another like the original three heads of the Hydra, before they start getting lopped away and multiplying. The core of them always connected at the base. Anything! Say anything, his heart thrummed.

“How does it feel to win by such a close margin?”

Yuri stared at the microphone in front of him. His mouth was dry, and he was worried about his ability to speak with any sort of coherence.

“I knew I had to win. So I did.”

That was right. Victor told him to win, so Yuuri wouldn’t retire, right? Isn’t that what Victor said? Maybe not those words, but that was the jist of it. It was a cry for help, wasn’t it? And hadn’t Yuri answered with all his soul? Hadn’t he administered CPR to the patient, breaking his own body in the attempt to save all their lives? He looked over at the silver haired idiot, to see if maybe he’d heard, or understood. But he was moon-eyed at his fiancé, clearly not paying attention. He repeated himself, eyes stern: 

“I knew I had to win. So I did.”

At least one reporter might’ve made a note of his repetition and Yakov looked puzzled. No one else seemed to notice. 

—

Yuri made it back to the hotel room before he lost it.

They hadn’t even come over to him when the conference ended.

His tears started up as soon as the door closed behind him. He made it to the bed, intending to lie down, rest, cool off, but as his head hit the pillow he was overwhelmed by a bitter wave of outrage, and the next instant he was punching the plush thing instead. 

They didn’t _care_!!!

He screamed angry, rapid Russian into the pillow, frustration manifesting in a fury of fists. All of that negative energy sprung through his limbs, beating them against the uncaring sponge of the mattress. 

He repeated to himself how he gave up everything, he worked every day for months, he put aside his schooling. He pushed himself to the edge of possibility and sometimes farther.

The pillow soaked up his tears until he threw it across the room. It was only when he finally stopped screaming that he realized people were knocking on his door.

He pulled the blankets over his head, ignoring them, and seethed.

—

 _Are you coming to the banquet?_ Otabek texted. 

_Fuck all of them_.

Several minutes passed.

_Where are you?_

_205_.

There was a different knock on the door after that. Otabek looked prepared for the worst when Yuri opened it, but instead of finding an incoherent, blubbering mess, Yuri was calm, eyes red but dry, and his expression had the same solid, stony determination Otabek had come to expect from the Russian teen warrior.

They sat on the edge of the bed and Yuri didn’t say much. He felt like an asshole, being comforted after his gold medal win by a friend who didn’t even make the podium. He began complaining absently about his year. About Hasetsu. About losing to Yuuri. 

He didn’t notice Otabek texting, or didn’t think much of it. 

“I have to go,” Otabek said. “But I don’t think I’m the one you need to talk to.”

Yuri was about to say something important, a thank you, some sort of acknowledgement or appreciation, but Otabek rose when his periphery caught shadows breaking the bright line of light under the door. He squeezed Yuri's hand and said: 

"You're welcome," leaving the teen dumbfounded and frustrated on the bed as his new friend opened the door, still looking at him. "I'll see you downstairs."

In the hall, Victor and Yuuri stood, looking put together and perfect, and nothing could have made Yuri angrier. Otabek nodded to the pair as he slid out around them. Yuri glared and almost slammed the door in their faces, except Victor had his palm on it first and pushed it open, overpowering Yuri and walking in without permission.

“Of course you’d just barge in!” Yuri shouted. “You don’t care about what I want at all, do you?!”

They were expecting that, based on Otabek’s texts. 

“Even my personal space can’t be private from you two assholes! You don’t care how much you invade me and my life!” 

Victor and Yuuri stopped their advance towards the bed. They were _not_ expecting that. 

“You think you can just show up and do whatever you want and then when I need you you’re gone?! You don’t even think of me! You don’t even talk to me! Like you can just retire whenever and it doesn’t make a difference to me?!”

“Yuri, it’s no--” Victor started, but fuck Victor.

“You think you’re going to make me feel better? Is that it? You’re going to come in here and say some soothing shitty words and make it all right? Like I’m five? I don’t believe you! I don’t give a fuck what you’ve got to say to me! Get out!”

He was trying not to cry again but his voice was breaking. 

Neither of them moved. They didn’t know if they should touch to console, or perhaps say consoling things? They felt the radiation of Yuri’s emotions trying to burn their skin and poison their blood, but didn’t know what kind of protective coating was appropriate.

“You just have your own little life together and it doesn’t matter how much I gave up to be on the ice with you. It doesn’t matter that I was there at the beginning with you! It doesn’t matter to you! You don’t even tell me you’re going to stay!? I have to hear it with everyone else?! Like I’m just nobody to you!!!”

Victor reached for Yuri, and his fingertips almost made it to Yuri’s shoulder before they were slammed away.

“Like I’m any other fucking fan? Yurio finds out the same time as the Victuuri fan bloggers?! The people obsessed with you guys on Reddit? Are you fucking kidding me?!”

They were especially taken aback when he called himself Yurio.

Yuri’s not-crying plan was failing. He could feel the first tear leave a hot line down his cheek and he rubbed it away furiously.

He hated them, he hated both of them so much, only Yuuri’s arms were coming around his shoulders, and he was quaking against Yuuri’s chest, and then he couldn’t sob hard enough to let out all the pressure.

“I’m staying,” Yuuri whispered, and Yuri sobbed. “I’m staying with you. On the ice with you.”

Yuri’s hands clamped around Yuuri, refusing to acknowledge how pathetic he was being.

“I didn’t know it meant so much to you,” Yuuri mumbled. 

“Well we all know you’re an idiot!” Yuri choke-yelled.

And, Yuuri realized, Yuri was right.

Yuuri couldn't believe he made two Russians cry in the course of 24 hours, and both over the same thing. He’d thought he wasn't retiring for selfish reasons, but now he felt the weight of Victor's accusation the other night. He hadn't considered the way his retirement would affect anyone around him, because... honestly... he really hadn't believed it would affect them at all. And wasn't that the most opposite of selfish a person could be? Thinking so little of himself as to imagine his staying or going made no difference? But as he held the shuddering, blubbering mess that had taken over the body of his very favorite rageful tiger, he knew it was a kind of selfishness. He realized that he’d ignored two people he cared very much about, deciding on his own that they couldn’t possibly feel the things they so clearly felt. 

Victor was watching Yuuri’s face, the play of realizations evolving over his features.

It hadn’t just been selfish. It had been cruel.

Yuuri mouthed silent words over Yuri's shaking shoulder to his fiance, "I'm so sorry."

Victor's lips ticked up fondly, but he shook his head and indicated the bundle in Yuuri's arms. 

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Yuuri said.

Yuri sniffled, stilling his body, waiting.

“I want to keep skating with you, Yuri,” Yuuri whispered, not knowing what else to say.

"Me too," Yuri admitted, too raw to lie to himself or anyone, anymore. He snuffled into Yuuri's chest, shook his head, swallowed, and finally barked, angry but happy, voice a craggling mess: "That's all I've wanted this whole time!" like the words were some sort of hairball that had been twisting his insides and had to be expelled with all their burning bile.

Victor came up beside them, then, a flat palm of reassurance on each of their upper backs.

His touch helped Yuuri's tone shift, sly playfulness to pull Yuri out of his funk:

"How was I supposed to know kicking and insults meant 'I really care about you'?" 

Yuri didn't miss a beat, snuffling: "Victor could have told you." 

"Oh Yuri. Victor doesn't use his words either," Yuuri sighed, eyes closing in sympathy. Then he chuckled, hugging Yuri tighter. "Must be a Russian thing." 

Victor coughed pointedly. 

"Err... a _guy_ thing?" He shrugged innocently at his fiance. Then Yuuri squeezed Yuri's shoulders, pulling away and looking into his eyes, with a challenge. “Next time I think you’ll lose to me.”

And Yuri almost laughed, but it was just more tears, happy ones this time. 

Because he didn’t care.

He’d never been worried about losing _to_ Yuuri.

Even if he lost to Yuuri once, he’d beat him the next time. That was never the point. The point was, as long as Yuuri was around, it didn’t matter if Yuri won or lost.

Now, for the first time in his young life, he felt like he had nothing to worry about.

He took a breath, savored the solidity around him, the rightness of everything being back in its proper place. 

He needed to call his Grandpa.


End file.
